


Dirty Up Your Conscience

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Demons, Multi, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:50:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demons lie, except for when they tell the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Up Your Conscience

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lazy_daze for the spn_holidays challenge. She asked for: _4 - Wincest; Dean REALLY getting turned on by thinking about Sam having sex with girls; featuring detailed jerk-off sessions while fantasising and/or voyeurism (so het is obviously okay), and preferably leading to actual Wincest. Pluses include top!Sam, hints of dom!Sam._ Hope I fulfilled at least part of what you were looking for. You had some fab prompts, and I waffled forever trying to choose one! Thanks to back_in_black for the mid-fic advice and nitpicking, to Cormallen for the fab mid-fic beta, and finally thanks to unjealous for infecting me with her genius and pretty much co-writing sections of the fic.

Dean wasn't actually drunk, he just had a couple shots of Jim Beam at the bar, but when Sam showed up all pissy, bitching about being left alone on laundry duty, Dean didn't want to hear it. Sam knew better than to lecture when Dean was drunk; it only made him laugh or get belligerent, and apparently Sam found both reactions too obnoxious to deal with. Slurring a little and laughing at everything was a small price to pay to fend off Sam's put-upon speeches.

He grabbed Sam's sleeve and tried to pull him down into the bar stool next to him, but Sam shook him off. "Come on, Dean, we need to get up early."

Dean gestured to the girl sitting to his left, her long legs crossed under the bar counter. "I'm in the middle of a conversation, Sam."

Sam laughed, not really amused, and shifted his weight. The girl, Marie, was giving Sam the eye, and as usual Sam made every effort not to acknowledge her. "Yeah, right, I'm sure it's been scintillating--" asshole! "--but I think it's time to go home." Go home, go to a motel. Go home to mismatched socks and damp denim jeans that smelled like sulfur no matter how many times you washed them, all folded and lined up on Dean's bed, compliments of Sam's anal retentiveness.

Dean switched on a blinding grin and swiveled in his seat, turning to face Marie, who smiled and sipped on her fourth martini. Her hair fell in a riot of blonde waves over her shoulders and she had a freckle or a beauty mark above her lip. She looked kinda like Jessica, or Dean's admittedly faded and brief memory of her. "Do you wanna come home with us tonight?"

He didn't mean it, didn't believe in it any more than he believed in his own level of drunkenness. He said it to piss Sam off and it worked. He heard Sam's surprised hitch of breath behind him, and a muffled "Jesus _Christ_." Marie gave Sam the eye again, and Dean could about picture Sam's awkward, embarrassed smile.

Marie looked like she was considering it, maybe about to say yes, and that shit usually never worked, but he guessed there was a first time for anything. She opened her pretty, lipstick-red mouth to answer, but Sam cut in.

"Sorry about my brother, he gets real friendly when he's." Sam stuttered over a nice way to say shitfaced. "Drunk."

Sam hauled him up off the stool by the back of his coat, like some mother cat with her kitten, and Dean swallowed irritation to stumble and stagger his way under the curve of Sam's arm around his shoulders. Fuck him. Cockblocking bastard.

Leaning most of his weight up against Sam, he made sure to give everyone in the bar a lengthy goodbye at the doors. Once Sam managed to drag him out, he tripped a few times in the parking lot for good measure. Sam dumped him into the passenger seat and fastened the seatbelt around him, as Dean stared up at the ceiling, letting his head loll against the seat, fighting back a smirk.

"What a pain in the ass you are," Dean mumbled, really playing it up. "Always bitching and sulking. Since you were nine, a pain in my ass."

"Pain in my ass since I was _born_," Sam retorted, weary, like he didn't think Dean could hear him. It was that quiet little aside, the fact that Sam believed it, that ticked him off. He spent the rest of the ride back to the Motel 6 silently listing all the reasons Sam was an ass.

\--

Dean was stretched out on the bed, listening to the clanging pipes and hiss of the shower running. He was tired, a little, and still irked at Sam to the point of listlessness, but his boots were laced too tight and he hated sleeping in jeans. At least Sam'd wrestled the coat off of him before he wandered off to shower. Dean sat himself up long enough to untie the laces and kick the boots off, landing with two soft clunks onto the floor, and wriggled out of his jeans. He hit the pillow with an oof and dragged the comforter up over his legs.

It was only like 10, or maybe 11, too early by far. Sam dragged him out of the bar for no real reason. He was tired enough for the hour, but he knew he couldn't sleep. You would think Sam would cherish the time they had to themselves, but no; if Dean went to shoot pool or get laid, Sam got snitty and hunted him down, chewed him out. And tonight, that blonde, Marie, she had been pretty for a barfly, and Dean had a real chance. Ten more minutes alone with her, and he would have been back at her place. Hell, maybe even in the bathroom, the brand new condoms in his wallet put to good use. Shit, though, she looked like she would have gone for Sam, and she was _Sam's_ type, all that hair and how tall she was.

He had a thought that maybe Sam didn't want to go for his type, not after Jessica. Maybe it was over for him and leggy blondes. If so, what a sad state, a huge demographic of potential pussy he was counting out. Not that Sam ever had anything but potential pussy these days. Some chick could throw herself onto his cock and he'd politely excuse himself.

Dean glanced at the clock, gauging how much longer Sam would be in the shower. There was a press of urgency -- a niggling need to get off -- curling in his stomach, tensing the muscles there and making his breath come heavier. What'd it been, a day? Two? No, that morning, during his last shower, where he usually did it because it was safer. What Sam was probably doing right now. Dean's fingers slipped under the waistband of his shorts, lamenting the state of Sam's carpal tunnel from all that jerking off he must be doing.

He thought about Marie, about her legs around his hips, about what she'd let him do to her. One knuckle sliding over her clit to get her wet, inching her hips forward, noises in the back of her throat, the way he liked them. She looked like a boring fuck, now that he thought about it. Didn't say much, didn't flirt much, just slid closer to him and smiled and licked her lips. Her lips. His fingers twisted on an upstroke, playing with the slit, picturing her lips sucking tiny kisses against the tip there, then sliding down. Her lipstick'd smear off on it and her lips wouldn't be as red, shiny from her spit, pearly wet with his precome. Fuck, that was good. His hips arched off the bed and he sped up, still turned to face the clock, eyes unseeing of the blurry neon numbers on its face.

She would have said yes. She looked like she was going to back at the bar, and Dean knew under her mannequin exterior there was a little spice waiting to come out. She would have sat shotgun while Sam waited, nervous and pissed off and horny, in the back. Never mind that Sam thought he was drunk and wouldn't let him drive the Impala, it still would have worked out this way. He wouldn't have turned the radio on so he could hear her carefully controlled breathing, sitting there wet already, thinking about Dean's tongue on her clit and if Sam's dick matched the rest of him.

Sam, Sam would try and disappear, hem and haw the whole way, probably stuttering excuses while she took off her shirt and then stood there in her skirt and her bra two sizes too small, tits pushed up, spilling out. Dean'd slide behind her and nudge her up on the bed, hands working at the clasp, cupping her tits, whispering shit in her ear. Saying, "how you wanna do this? You want us both at once?" And she'd make a noise, not quite a moan, and just lean into him, nod.

And then Sam would give in. Somewhere around there. Maybe when Dean started fingering her and Sam could see how wet she was, pink and shaved and tight around his finger. Sam would take off his shirt with awkward, stiff fingers and she'd get even wetter, clenching around him, because she wanted Sam so bad, wanted to see if the rest of him looked as good.

Sam would eat her out, his tongue pointed and lapping, his hair pushed out of his eyes so he could see what he was doing. She'd be flat on the bed by then, legs spread and skirt off, or maybe _almost_ off, dangling on an ankle. The room would be filled with the sounds of her breathing and soft gasps, the wet sounds of Sam, getting sloppier as it went on. She'd be two seconds from coming, getting into it, not nearly as quiet, maybe pushing at his head with fitful hands, tugging his hair. He'd move away from between her thighs, wipe off his mouth, look for his jeans and fumble for the condom. His cock all red, so fucking hard, sticky, condom -- extra large, she was right, it matched the rest of him -- going on. He'd angle her hips and push in, and then she'd groan, probably hadn't taken a dick like that in a while, or ever. "Fuck," she'd whine, Sam pumping his hips, balls right up against her ass, and Dean shot all over himself.

He took a few moments to breathe, blinking, his hands resting uselessly against his chest. His come was cooling quickly, but he didn't have the energy to get up. He didn't have the quickest recovery time with orgasms.

"It smells like spunk in here."

Dean started, or more like his thoughts screeched to a halt in surprise, but his body was still too overloaded to actually react.

Sam tossed his wet towel onto the floor. He was already dressed in his boxers and t-shirt, shoulders still damp and causing the material to stick. His expression was all pinched and it was vaguely amusing, or would have been if Dean's heart wasn't pounding. Sam sat down on the bed, tucking one leg under him, and reached for the remote. He channel-surfed for a moment before stopping on some World's Most Extreme Car Chases or whatever. "Dude, I know you're not that drunk, you don't fool me."

Dean just lay there for a moment, painfully aware of his sticky shorts. "I need to piss." He rolled out of bed, feeling Sam's eyes on his back until he closed the bathroom door behind him.

\--

Starbucks wasn't Dean's choice for pickup spots, but he had to admit it hadn't been all that bad. In cities like Chicago, Sacramento or Denver, a lot of the customers were barely-legal yuppie chicks who took one look at his jacket and irritated expression and, not incorrectly, thought _bad boy_. Most yuppie chicks were prudes, leering at him like he was the whipped cream on their Venti froufy caramel whatevers, but if he went up with any intent to one of them, they clammed up, got bitchy, even. But a few of them were into it, almost _easy_, writing their numbers on stray napkins and inviting him out for drinks later. All things considered, it wasn't too hard to score at a Starbucks.

Today, though, the barista, who was pretty hot and had a tongue ring, stared at him blankly. He smiled and gave her a big tip, encouragement, and she gave him a look that read like he'd asked her _how much for an hour, sweetheart_? He watched her make Sam's latte and his black with mild suspicion, but she was too visible to be able to spit in it. She slammed the order down on the counter without a word and Dean took it, scowling, back to the table.

Sam was dicking around with the place's wireless, in it for the long haul for some substantiated local lore on a headless horseman, no lie. He thanked Dean absently for his coffee, went on staring at the screen and didn't offer any news on what he'd found. Dean shook out the newspaper and hunted for a pen, starting what was probably the millionth Sudoku puzzle he'd done over the last few years. He was fitting in a nine and double checking against the row beneath it when Sam spoke.

"Eugh, Dean, I told you I wanted a vanilla latte, how is that difficult to remember?"

"Don't blame me, man, that chick was on the rag or something."

"I never can figure out why you piss people off who handle your _food_." He shut his laptop and stood up with an irritated sigh.

Dean went back to his Sudoku and absently kept an ear on Sam, his 'excuse me Miss'es and downright creepy way of manipulating people into doing what he wanted. Dean never had gotten that down; it probably had something to do with Sam's stupid hair. The barista was all apologies and he heard her laugh at something Sam said. A few minutes later, Sam came back, holding his brand new vanilla latte and a lone napkin, looking perplexed.

"I don't get it. I tip her, she fucks up our order. You complain, and she gives you her number."

"I was being polite, Dean." He stared at the napkin for a minute but his monklike nature reasserted itself and he went back to the laptop.

Dean took a sip of his coffee, considering. "You see her tongue ring?" Sam didn't answer, hardly bothered to flick an unimpressed glance over the top of the screen. "Always thought those things were overrated, but there was this chick in Georgia." Sam squinted and slid further down in his chair, his patented 'I'm-not-listening' bullshit. "Man, that was intense." Sam went peck-peck-peck, undeterred, and Dean stifled the urge to laugh. "She worked me like a pro, spent like ten minutes just flicking her tongue over my--"

"Dean!" Sam's hands flew up in mock surrender. "In what universe do you think I want to hear about this?"

Dean chuckled over the rim of his cup. "You should try it, all I'm saying."

"Yeah, thanks for the advice," Sam said, sarcastic ass.

He was about done with his coffee, and Sam looked like he was onto something, when the barista came by. She was holding a small card between her manicured fingers. Dean gave her a weak smile, but she turned her back on him and leaned over -- _leaned over_, one arm braced on the cafe table, probably giving Sam a great view -- and spoke directly to Sam. "Sir, I just wanted to apologize again for your order," she said.

Sam huffed an anxious laugh, squirming in his seat. "Oh, oh, it's no big deal."

"I wanted to give you this for your trouble, and thank you again for being so understanding." She handed the card to Sam, who looked down at it intently. "It's a voucher for a free coffee, just, you know. Hopefully we'll get _that_ order right," and she gave this tinkling laugh that she'd probably spent some time rehearsing in the past.

By the time she walked away, Dean was staring at Sam in abject fascination. Sam noticed. "What?"

"You're so smooth, bro, I'm impressed."

"Shut up."

"No, really, it was total James Bond." Sam flipped him off, and Dean cracked up. Sam shook his head and started typing again. God knew how he landed chicks like that. Maybe they went for the geeky, potentially a virgin vibe. No accounting for taste. She was practically giving him a lapdance and he sat there like she was trying to sell him life insurance.

If it'd been Dean -- and let's not forget it _had_ been Dean, many times over, but for whatever reason this girl disliked him on sight -- he would have flirted back to the point of indecency, then slunk off to the restroom and waited for her. She would have been there, practically gagging for it, going straight to her knees in her work pants and unbuttoning his jeans with a smile. And that tongue ring, glinting, working over his cock, flicking the head until he was grunting and driving his hips up.

God, what if Sam got up to use the john and she took it as a _signal_? Maybe she'd corner him actually about to take a fucking leak, him stuttering and freaking out, her not giving a damn, dropping to her knees. She'd just want him to fuck her mouth, and he'd get into it the more he saw her taking it, slamming it so deep he'd choke her. She'd pull off to breathe and go right back, Sam clenching his teeth and telling her to just take it, that's right, just choke on his dick, his pants not even all of the way down so the zipper's teeth scraped at her face. She'd stop when he got close and tell him he could shoot on her face, and Sam would lose it, probably get it in her hair. Shit, Sam didn't know what he was missing.

"You awake?" Dean blinked and Sam studied him expectantly.

"What?"

"You were off in your own little world there."

"Just thinkin' about that tongue ring," he said, all smart ass, and Sam rolled his eyes. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah, I think I found everything I'm going to, and I want to get out of here before she offers me a complimentary pastry."

\--

Their waitress was forty if she was a day, but she was a _good_ forty, and Dean didn't say no to the free sodas and round of fries. He wouldn't say no to the number she might scribble onto the bill, either. Sam was so used to Dean's usual treatment by diner staff that he didn't even look up from his notes, scribbling away on ritual animal sacrifice while Dean tried to distract him by throwing fries.

Sam went to go to the bathroom, and Dean was halfway into a pretty fantastic burger so he hardly registered Sam getting up, but then the cloying smell of Ruby's perfume hit him in the face. She wasn't even near him yet, but he could _smell_ the sick bitch. He set his burger down and covertly felt for his gun underneath the table; by the time she slid into the booth, in Sam's place, he'd lost his appetite and gained one hell of a bad attitude.

"Hey, Dean-o." As if his teeth weren't already set on edge. She poked Sam's food around his plate -- and the idea of her touching anything that went near Sam, her sulfur and evil and floral perfume _poisoning_ him, as irrational as he knew it was -- it made him want to grab her by the hair and slam her face into the chipped table.

"How stupid can you be, showing up here," he growled.

"Relax, I'm just here to see Sam. No need to take it personally."

"Oh, it's definitely personal," he said, while she busied herself with picking the ketchup-sodden lettuce off of Sam's burger.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam's voice boomed pretty impressively over their heads. Dean glanced up and Sam, for once not slouching, looked like one seriously pissed off giant. He got in the booth next to Ruby when he realized his Conan the Barbarian impression wasn't going to fly in the middle of a diner.

Ruby gestured at Dean. "I'm having a heart-to-heart with your brother. I'm starting to see why you care about him so very much."

"You've got some kinda nerve," Dean started, but Sam shot him a look that very clearly read 'let me handle this.' Because Sam had _so_ much control over Ruby.

"Look at you two," she simpered, "it's almost like watching an old married couple."

Sam's eyes narrowed and he looked momentarily furious, like he was going to backhand her, but then his face melted into cool and collected. She turned her sunny smile back at him, knowing, some sort of blonde Cheshire cat. And yeah, it made him queasy, but Dean could totally see that turning into something else a little more meaningful, her hair splayed forward, all over her arms, as Sam fucked her doggy style. Maybe fucking a way to save Dean out of her. He had a hot flash of Sam's come dripping out of her and his stomach clenched.

"Dude," Ruby said, looking at him with a mix of amusement and what must have been feigned disgust. She seemed _impressed_.

"What?" he shot back, but he didn't have to think about it much. Demon, tendency to fuck with people's heads, and for those personal touches they had to get the information from _somewhere_. She smiled wider, confirming his suspicions, and her eyes twinkled with it, fanned by long lashes, and it could be any other thing she could be laughing at, her boyfriend or some dumb joke. Dean had a moment of shame when he remembered that this was some poor girl's body he was picturing, someone's daughter, a kid.

"What?" Sam said, looking between the two of them.

"So do you think of all the girls that way or am I just _special_?" She leaned toward him, taking on a sultry little tone that the tiny, probably teenaged body didn't quite carry off. Goddamn demon bitch.

"Shut up," he started in, heated, his fingers gripping the butt of his gun under the table, knowing he wasn't stupid enough to shoot her in the middle of the frigging diner, but also knowing she was probably going somewhere he _really_ didn't like.

She laughed and idly picked at a French fry on his plate, twirling it between her manicured fingers. "I'm really going to draw this one out, you know," she informed him, biting the tip of the fry with particular relish.

"What the hell is going on?" Sam butted in again, in his usual way getting all hot and bothered because they weren't letting him in on whatever it was he thought he was being left out of.

Dean didn't answer, just started to slide from the booth, tempted to drag Sam along, away from Ruby, but Sam would never come without a fight or an explanation. He couldn't deal with either. Sam tried to grab him but he was already halfway to the door when Ruby called out to him, "You're making my week with this one, Dean-o. I'm going to _masturbate_ to Sam's face after I tell him."

Everyone in the diner was looking at them, the low buzz of chatter and forks against cheap plates silenced. Dean turned around, Sam tense and ready to explode in the booth, but Ruby likely wouldn't let him leave, would drag him back with her deceptively small frame. Her teeth gleamed white even from Dean's place at the door.

He saw himself, in some alternate turn of events, pulling a gun on her, aiming smack at the middle of her forehead, a kill shot on any normal human or even creature, if he'd had the right ammo. Regular bullets in his gun, which wouldn't do anything except give her a pretty impressive hole that she'd have a time explaining, and put some more shit on his rap sheet. Like he cared. He wanted the satisfaction of shooting her in the fucking head. Watching her jerk as it slammed in. His hand actually reached for it he was so furious, and he had to stop himself from making what would be a catastrophic mistake.

"Sammy," she said, slow and casual, preening under the attention of their horror and all the unfortunate souls who just wanted some coffee and lunch and got a whole lot more, "your brother wants to fuck you in the ass."

"What the _hell_?" Dean blurted, so shocked it came out without thought.

Ruby cackled. "Yeah, I was right, his face is pretty much priceless."

He wanted to form a protest but couldn't, so he sent a furious wave of WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, I DON'T WANT TO FUCK HIM IN THE ASS, WHAT ARE YOU SMOKING and a barrage of some other totally nonsensical thoughts and images her way.

Sam looked like he was having trouble speaking too, couldn't blame him, and Ruby gnawed on her fry some more. "He thinks about you," she confided happily, "about how _big_ you must be, and who can blame him, really," and she stopped when Sam grabbed her wrists and shoved her back, hard, against where the diner's wall and window met at their booth.

"Shut the fuck up," he said, low, so low it hardly carried. He shook her so hard her head rattled around and hit the glass. She just kept smiling. "If I see you again," and he stopped there. Dean numbly figured he must have _thought_ something at her, or maybe he was making some sort of menacing face he couldn't see. He let go of her wrists and got out of the booth, moving fast, radiating fury.

Ruby turned back to her fries, completely unfazed. Sam brushed past him out the door.

\--

They didn't speak. Sam drove. Dean felt a little like he'd gone a few days without sleeping, detached and surreal, but his head practically boiled with the need to explain, or the need to laugh everything off. He knew Sam was anything but stupid, he would have noticed Dean's less than confused reaction to Ruby's taunting, so laughing it off wouldn't work, but he didn't know how to broach the _I don't want to fuck you, bro, I just like to think about you doing it with chicks, a very distinct difference there_ conversation. He stayed silent and stared, unseeing, at the dashboard.

Sam drove past the exit for their motel, and Dean didn't say anything. Sam kept forgetting, or not bothering, to change gears until the Impala was practically growling, and Dean didn't say anything. Finally, they were headed out past city limits, and Dean whetted his lips, tentative.

"I don't want to. Y'know."

"Yeah." Sam's fingers clenched over the steering wheel as he adjusted his grip. "Demons lie, right."

"Right."

They were silent again. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it was loaded, and Dean felt kind of sick over it. He wished he would have shot her, or that she would have the guts to show her face again so Sam would do whatever it was he'd threatened. He wanted her dead, gone, finished with the meddling and the lies and whatever the fuck she'd been doing to Sam's head. And then he wanted her revived so he could do it all over again for her fucking peering into his head and doing whatever crazy shit she wanted with it. Never mind that it was a lie, he didn't want to fuck Sam, the idea of it made him queasier than before and gave him a nearly physical recoil, an intrinsic _no_.

Demons lie. They'd gotten that all nice and squared. Didn't explain why Sam was still sitting there, pissed, and why Dean was still struck awkward and silent because of it. In the passenger's seat no less, Jesus.

"She showed me this, I don't know, mirage of shit, all these flashes of me fucking random chicks, and _Angelina Jolie_, and she showed me you jerking off, and she kept calling me Sammy." Sam started laughing in his huffy, humorless way. "She said, Sammy, look how much your brother loves you."

Dean really thought he might puke.

"Look how much your brother wants you, Sammy, what he'd do for you, how much he _loves_ you--"

"Fuck, Sam." He curled around himself, nauseous and terrified and grossed the fuck out. "Pull the car over, I'm gonna--"

Sam's voice rose over him. "And you just stood there, like she was reading your diary or something."

Dean just shook his head. No amount of assuring his brother he _didn't want to fuck him_. He wasn't going to open his mouth and say that, make things that much worse. "It's nothing, Sam. It's nothing."

"_Selling your soul for me_," Sam hissed, suddenly violent, jerking the car into the right lane and then back out to a small cacophony of horns. "Jesus."

"Fuck--no, don't you make it that," Dean growled. He nearly wrenched his back turning to face Sam and felt the illogical urge to slap him across his face.

Sam cut across three lanes of traffic and took the nearest exit, Dean bracing himself with his hand against the dash. Neither of them bothered to look if any cars collided in the wake of Sam's crazy driving. He pulled into a Safeway and parked all cockeyed, taking up two spots at the back of the lot.

He couldn't really believe this was happening. Dean could hear the engine's ticking cool-down and Sam's forcibly controlled breathing and it was unreasonably loud, claustrophobic. He rubbed a hand at his mouth, fitful. He wanted to get out of the car and punch the sick rage out of him. He wanted something to kill but the only thing handy was Sam. He wanted to turn the car around and find Ruby and spend the next few days beating the shit out of her and making her scream apologizes at Sam. Like that'd erase the damage done.

"So, what, you going to lie and tell me it was something else?"

Dean hauled off and punched him. It just sort of happened. His knuckles stung and felt like he'd spent too long cracking them, not the usual pain he remembered from throwing punches. Sam's cheek had split from Dean's ring and it bled in a tidy trickle down to his jaw. He didn't even look surprised, only more pissed off.

"Fuck you, that's disgusting."

Sam started laughing again, tinged with an edge of hysteria. He swiped his fingers over the cut and wiped them off on his jeans. "Yeah, it is."

"It's just," he said through gritted teeth, eyes closed, the words forcing themselves through his mouth because there was nothing he'd want to talk about less, "some-- thing, I don't know, I just do it."

"Think about me fucking people?" Sam's voice rose shrilly in indignation, and it would have been funny any other time. Dean belatedly figured out that he hadn't actually assumed Dean wanted to do him, which was only minutely reassuring in the scheme of things.

"No! Man. I don't know. Not just you. Can we _not_ talk about this."

"Not just me," Sam echoed, dubious. "Like random people on the street?" Dean didn't answer. He slammed his head back against the seat and saw spots behind his eyelids. "What, like _dad_?"

His eyes popped open and his whole body jerked in a shudder. "Dude, don't make me hurl."

"I take that as a no," he muttered. The hysterical tone was gone from his voice, and he sounded like he was back in his rational Sam mode, which meant he was going to talk it out until both of them were dead or until he was satisfied, whichever came first. Well. Technically, he'd be first. Six months and four days. "Dean, dude, help me out here, because I'm not getting this."

How the fuck complicated could it be. Dean failed to see why Sam had to _get_ it, and of course Sam wasn't going to anyway, because Sam was Sam, the guy who never hit on girls and only got laid once every few freaking years and had things end badly.

Sam started talking again, even more reasonable and rational and fucking calm. "Are you into voyeurism?"

Dean snorted. "Can you see me peeking into women's bedroom's and beating off in the bushes? Fuck no."

"I meant do you like to watch."

That was pretty evident. "Why are we talking about this, Sam? Really. Ruby threw that shit at you to fuck with your head, she blew it all up to fuck with you, or us, and I don't want to sit around here fucking talking about it and making it worse. It's what she wants." Sam seemed to have no problem doing what Ruby wanted, he thought Dean was stupid or blind, and he wanted that bitch dead before she could talk him into doing something truly fucked up in the name of saving Dean's ass.

Sam's voice turned wry. "Yeah, I noticed that. Didn't think she'd try and sabotage me trying to-- yeah."

"Didn't think. She's a fucking demon, Sam, what I've been telling you all along." Didn't want to save him, didn't want to help Sam, just wanted Sam beholden so she could milk it for what it's worth, see how far she could put the screws to Sam. Maybe it was her idea of entertainment. All Sam's talk about using her, so far gone at the idea of saving him he couldn't see it was the other way around. Sometimes he was such a dumbass.

"Look, it's just something I do, I don't know why it's you sometimes. Maybe, maybe I'm too invested in getting you laid so you can blow off some steam. It isn't a big deal."

"Or maybe it's a side effect of spending so much goddamn time together."

Dean actually laughed. He didn't know he had it in him, didn't know why it was funny. He was still freaked, still annoyed at Sam's rational, everything-is-fine tone, how he got weirdly superior and it felt like he was sitting in some shrink's office. But the laugh, that was something, at least. "Yeah, maybe."

Sam paused. Dean could feel his eyes on him, considering. At least he wasn't pissed. Or looking to return that punch. "You're not talking about this, are you."

"Nope."

Sam's silence was a little long-suffering and irritated, not that Dean could blame him. He stared up at the ceiling and didn't protest when Sam started up the car. He didn't think he could drive right then anyway. He felt the car lurch into reverse and roll along the asphalt, Sam's driving steady and controlled. Back to normal.

Right.

\--

They spent two days on auto-pilot, not avoiding each other but not really speaking, either. Dean brought back all their meals, and they ate sitting at the edge of their beds, watching tv. It was better than having to muster up camaraderie in a restaurant. Dean was in charge of the remote, except for when he was asleep; he woke up a few times to Sam watching God knows what on HBO, both of them bathed in the blueish light of the tv. He wanted to tell him to turn it off and get some sleep, but it would break their unspoken rule of grunting, so he rolled over and smashed his face into the pillow until sleep came again.

That night he spent flicking through the tv stations, so fed up of being in that tiny motel room while Sam prepped their next hunt. He wasn't really seeing anything, only catching snatches of infommercials and the ubiquitous Law &amp; Order marathons. Sam was watching from his bed, back against the headboard and arms crossed over his stomach. Dean could see him getting more and more agitated from Dean's channel-flipping, but he wasn't going to stop until _something_ changed, like maybe there was something good on tv or if Sam said two words to get him to stop.

Things got momentarily weird when Dean landed on the skin channels. He desperately flipped through, his fingers cramping like he was having fucking target practice, until they cleared out of the breathy moans and cheesy music. After, it felt like neither of them were breathing, the TV Guide channel scrolling by, a chipper announcer recapping this week's entertainment news. They still didn't speak. Dean almost turned it off, but that would be acknowledgment, and he didn't think either of them wanted to go there. He looked at the shows and movies scrolling by; there had to be something utterly sexless on tv, he didn't care if he had to put on the goddamn Disney channel. High School Musical was less painful than sitting in that stupid motel room with Sam, both of them too freaked out to move.

One of the HBOs was showing Titanic. Bingo. He'd never seen it, some weird hybrid of a chick movie and a disaster flick was _not_ his bag, but he couldn't think of anything less suggestive than a lot of people flailing around in the ocean.

It was evident that the ship hadn't struck the iceberg yet, and he had to suffer through bad monologues and some crappy true love shit. He heard Sam almost start laughing at the "I'm flying!" bit, and he had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from doing the same.

He should have changed the channel when it got creepy. There was this feeling in his stomach, this finely honed sense of danger that apparently extended from hunting to movies. But he reasoned that it was PG-13, how bad it could it be, and more channel flipping would put a giant I'M UNCOMFORTABLE sign above his head. So he sat back and watched and forced himself to stare unblinkingly at Kate Winslet's boobs.

It was _over_ in that goddamn car. "I've gotta -- shower," Dean muttered, and threw the remote onto the bed violently. He was into the bathroom so quick it seemed like tires should have squealed. He stood with his back against the closed door, feeling like laughing hysterically or beating his head against the wall in frustration, he wasn't sure which. After a moment it passed and he started shucking off his clothes.

It was weird. He was soaping up and squinting under the overspray when it struck him what Ruby had made of the two of them. It was what she'd wanted and they had both fallen into it. Kate Winslet's _tits_ had sent him running from the room like a five year old kid afraid of things in his closet. Pretty ridiculous. All because of some random crap in Dean's head and Ruby's sense of _fun_.

He tried to think back to the last time when things were this weird. All that came to mind was Stanford and that time Dean slept with Sam's high school best friend (even though Sam had no real chance with her, claimed not to _want_ any real chance with her, and probably spent all of his time at her house painting his toenails and gossiping). Which begged the question as to how they'd gotten through that crap. And it was either something fucked up happening and taking precedence, or Sam angrily trying to make them talk through it. Not that it ever actually worked -- the talking -- but they pissed each other off to the point of throwing punches, and after you've given someone a bloody nose it's hard to stay sullen.

Punching his brother in the face (again) was not going to solve anything. Sam would just punch back and call him a pervert and Ruby would get one of those grotesque victory smiles. Maybe if he refrained from the punching, or let Sam take a lone shot at him, maybe it would have the same effect. Dean rinsed his hair and squinched his eyes shut when shampoo ran onto his face.

Thinking about it was wearing on Dean's mind, and thinking about personal shit was about the last thing he wanted to do, right after hang gliding. He turned his mind to the immediacy of the shower, running through the well-worn routines of mohawking his hair with the conditioner and taking a second round with the soap.

When he found himself considering the free exfoliant, Dean acknowledged his pathetic attempt at putting off the inevitable. He was probably a lot of things, but Dean Winchester wasn't a coward. He squared his shoulders, put down the soap, and shut off the water tap. The faucet dripped into the sudden silence, and he ignored the rushing terror in his veins in favor of wrapping a towel around his waist. He'd left his sweatpants on the floor that morning, crumpled into a corner, another sign that he and Sam weren't working at maximum efficency. Sam usually picked up his crap and tossed it in with the dirty clothes. He yanked his pants on and considered putting on the shirt he'd been wearing before, but it smelled like too many days in a motel room, so he threw it back onto the floor.

In the steamed-up mirror, his reflection looked back at him, wide-eyed and freaked out. Par for the course. He flipped off the light switch and opened the door, which creaked in protest.

He looked automatically for Sam on the bed, probably sobbing at the movie by now, but he wasn't there. The tv was off and the sheets were still rumpled. Panic exploded in his chest like he'd been shot, and Dean's head snapped from side to side as he searched Sam out. The room could hardly be called _big_, but he almost missed his brother sitting stiff-backed in the one chair that had been in the room when they arrived. One of its legs was shorter than the other three, which might have accounted for the pinched expression and lack of acknowledgment Sam was giving him.

"Hey," he said tentatively, to fill the silence. His olive branch went unaccepted, and he busied himself with going through his duffle for a shirt, his back to Sam. He found a green shirt that he didn't usually sleep in, but Sam wasn't doing the laundry and he wasn't either, so he pulled it out and gave it a shake. He pulled on the shirt, turning topics over in his mind, something to get the ball rolling. Anxiousness built up in his chest and he blurted the first thing that came to him. "So I was thinking, I could really go for some ice cream." _Ice cream_. He wasn't even hungry. He wanted to talk to his brother and all that came out was ice cream. "I think there was a Baskin Robbins a few miles back, what do you say to some Rocky Road?"

Nothing. Sam was a heavy presence behind him, solid as a statue. He pulled on the shirt and tried to think about something other than ice cream flavors. It took him a moment to turn around, but when he did, he met Sam's stony eyes.

"Anyone home in there?" he tried.

Sam's jaw clenched and he turned his head, the first movement he'd made since Dean stepped into the room. He wasn't looking at Dean, obviously, but Dean could see his eyes glittering and the way a muscle in his cheek twitched. He'd seen that look a few times on Sam, like he was hardly holding it together. Realization hit Dean like a ton of bricks. He stepped backward fast, holding his hands up in front of him in a bizarre gesture of disgust and surrender.

"Dude, you think I was. You think--"

"You weren't?" Sam said, deliberate and mean, looking back at Dean with the dead-on kind of stare that made most people toss down their cards or confess everything.

The shower, the shower was where they went, both of them, to jerk off. Early morning when the other was still groggy; it was better than feeling the sheets tangle around his feet while he tossed and turned and waited for the Sam's breathing to even out. Better than misgauging it and starting when Sam was still awake and listening. And at this point, it was pretty much routine, like maintenance.

Dean had never felt less like getting off in his life, these past few days. It sounded as appealing as surgery and made him about as tense to think about it. "Dude, I wasn't in there jerking off, so you can just fuck off." He turned, face burning in indignation and embarrassment, and picked up his weapons duffle. He fiddled with the strap a moment before tossing it back down on the bed. His hands shook.

"Right." Sam shifted, Dean hearing something clank on the table Sam was sitting near. "Whatever."

He kept his back to Sam and swallowed around the furious lump in his throat. Apparently it was too late for heart to hearts. "I don't care if you believe me, you asshole. You can believe whatever the fuck you want."

\--

Yeah, so the tension wasn't exactly _alleviated_ after their little exchange. Dean would look over at Sam in the passenger seat as they drove seven hundred miles to their next case, hand him his coffee and bagel, ask him to roll down his window, but all he could think is how he wanted to break his fucking nose. It was always Sam that got him this riled up, Sam with his stupid ideas and misconceptions. He had this mindset growing up that he wasn't one of them, would never be, and that attitude more than anything sent him off to Stanford with the motel door slammed behind his back. Now him and Ruby. He couldn't even think about it. He found himself pushing the accelerator to the floor and forcibly made himself slow down; it was dangerous to speed this time of day, and it drew attention to him.

There was a time in the dusty heat of New Mexico when they stopped for gas that Dean thought Sam might crack. Say something, fuckin' apologize, which would be nice and not a little overdue. Dean might have been having some creepy thoughts, but he wasn't going to disrespect Sam by flaunting it in his face. Stupid goddamn brother should know him better than that.

Sam was in the john, no doubt feeling that Big Gulp he'd been working on since their last pit stop, and Dean thought he'd finished and gone back to the car, so he headed over to the side of the station and tried to open the door to the bathroom. It was locked, occupied. Great. He leaned against the side of the porous wall and waited.

His brother came out and looked utterly stunned to see Dean waiting there. His jaw almost dropped. Dean pushed himself off the wall and tried to slip past him, but Sam just stood there. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Dean," Sam blurted, then looked surprised at having said it.

Dean waited, his other eyebrow lifting to match the other. Sam didn't say anything, not for a full thirty seconds, only rolled his shoulders under his t-shirt. "I gotta piss. You mind?"

When he came back to the car, Sam was sitting with the windows rolled down and reading dad's journal. He didn't say anything, didn't look up.

The next time he spoke it was a state line away, nighttime, when he wanted burgers. Dean gritted his teeth and took the next exit with a McDonald's sign. He rolled down his window and ordered for both of them, not caring if Sam wanted a side salad or a goddamn parfait. He was eating what Dean bought. They idled at the window, a few back in the line of dinner rush customers, and when they pulled up, the chick who handed him their sodas was sweaty and rushed and nearly dumped it all over his lap.

"Sorry," she fussed. Underneath her stupid work visor and frumpy clothes she might be hot. She thrust his bag of food at him.

He took it, studying her, both of them clutching the bag in mid-air. "You know," he said conversationally, the blood starting to roar in his ears and his stomach doing odd flips of rebellion, "my brother now thinks that I am thinking about him fucking you." Her face dropped into an expression Dean hadn't ever seen before and her hand fell away from the bag. He heard orders called out behind her, surreal in their silence, and felt kind of bad for fucking up her day. "Have a nice evening," he intoned, and gunned it out of there.

He thought Sam would throw a fit when they pulled away, but he just sat there. Dean flicked little glances at him out of the corner of his eye, between shoving fries into his mouth, but Sam did nothing. It got really difficult to suppress the hysterical, desperate laughter bubbling up in his throat, so he coughed around his fries and sucked down like half of his Dr Pepper.

"Aren't you hungry?" he asked, giddy with saying this shit, for shaking up Sam's self-righteous little world. Sam sat there, greasy bag on his lap, and Dean reached over and stole some of his fries.

\--

Pushing 80 down the interstate, Zeppelin blaring, when Sam's cell rang in his pocket. Sam pulled his phone out and checked the display, then turned down the music with one hand and pressed Talk with the other.

"Hey, Bobby."

Bobby. If it was about Dean's _predicament_, Sam would stall and find some reason to call Bobby back later, fidgeting, full of nervous habits. But if Bobby was calling them back with obscure info on a hunt from one of his endless books, it meant Sam would have to actually speak to Dean. Form words, maybe even sentences, about something other than rolling down his window or getting a diet Coke instead of regular. Dean watched Sam on his cell out of the corner of his eye, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Thanks for getting back to me so fast. None of the sources I could find were much help. Yeah. Small-town libraries and all that. So. D'you think it's a succubus?"

It was about the hunt, then. A hunt was what they needed, something to burn off tension, something to focus on other than the huge white elephant in the room. The car. Whatever. Their last job turned out to be a dead end; a hotel in California (no relation to The Eagles). Lights flickering, weird sounds, the works. It turned out the owners had actually rigged some room lights on a dimmer to fuck with people's heads. Oh, and Saturday night was Seance Night, which Dean had been forced to sit through, EMF in pocket, in case any real shit was going down. There wasn't, of course, just the usual propaganda about old, 'haunted' hotels used to drum up business taken a step too far.

Dean could hear Bobby's voice muffled through the phone and against Sam's ear. Sam dug through the bag at his feet for paper and a pen, found a crumpled and forgotten computer printout from two cases ago, and started scribbling down notes as fast as Bobby could dictate them. Dean contemplated taking the phone and saying hey; it had been a while since he'd talked to Bobby and he could use some sane human contact. Sam hung up before he could decide one way or another.

Dean looked over, waiting for Sam to pass on the details. Habit. Sam just tucked his cell phone back in his pocket and wiped his palms on his jeans. So he wasn't as cool and collected as he'd been playing -- Dean already knew that, but it was something else to _see_ past Sam's bullshit.

"It's succubi, like I thought." Dean had dealt with one of them when he was on the road with dad, but Sam hadn't, so Sam had been extra-thorough in checking the details. Wasn't like he'd accept Dean's help with researching the hunt. It might mean they'd have to look at each other. "Bobby said they're tricky to kill, even harder to hide from. If we go after her, she's gonna know." He gestured at his notes. "He said some stuff might help to help ward her off."

Pretty much the same deal when he and dad went after theirs. "Let me guess, hagstone, pen knife, blessed silver?"

There was a pause. When Sam spoke, it came out in this restrained, dull tone. "Yeah. I was thinking some blessed silver rounds might do the trick."

Dean nodded again, didn't answer. He turned the music back up, _they choose the path where no one goes_, and Sam sat back in his seat, both of them silent again.

\--

Two nights sleeping with hagstones by their beds made for some fucked up dreams. The succubus knew they were coming after her, and she descended on them viciously as soon as they went to sleep, her sick darkness and lust bleeding through to their dreams. Luckily the hagstones forced her to go in circles, never really finding an entrance. Neither of them felt rested during daylight hours, and if they weren't talking before, they _really_ weren't now. Dean was almost too tired to drive from the motel to the gas station or the burger joint, but somehow he managed.

Night three, and Sam had about finished preparing the ritual to get succubi to manifest in human form. Or what passes for human when you're a sex-starved demon. They couldn't do it in the motel room, too many people and too much potential for havoc. Dean cruised until he found an abandoned tri-level house on several acres. It wasn't quite falling apart, looked sturdy enough for the job, but he was kind of antsy about the neighbors, not to mention the woods behind the house. It was the best they could do in a town like that one, though.

Dean loaded his and Sam's handgun with the silver bullets, and as an afterthought loaded a shotgun with rock salt. Couldn't hurt. Last time he and dad had longer to prepare, better protection, and the benefit of getting along, no huge cloud hanging over their heads. Dean trusted Sam to have his back, even in this state, but the both of them were worn down. Their hunting would suffer for it.

In the car on the way to the abandoned house, Sam stared at the invocation and mouthed it over and over, rubbing at his eyes when they must have dried out. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, which was pretty close to the truth. Dean couldn't help the begrudging feeling of worry that crept up.

"You all right?" he asked.

Sam didn't look up from the invocation. "I'm fine."

"Well, good. 'Cause we're here." He veered off the rocky driveway and drove over weeds to the back of the house, in stealth mode. Less chance of interruption or someone calling the cops if they didn't see a huge black car in the driveway of an abandoned house. He switched off the headlights and then the ignition. Crickets sang somewhere out in the woods.

He got out and shut the door as quietly as he could. Sam followed a few seconds later, bringing his duffle and checking his weapon in the light from the trunk. Dean rustled around for last minute ideas. He'd kept the pen knife on him, and the hagstone, but Sam had left his in the motel room. There was a silver cross tucked into a box with some amulets, and Dean put it on with a mental shrug.

"Everything ready?"

Sam nodded. "I've got some candles in my bag," he said. "We're gonna need some light."

"I'll bring the lantern." He bent over the trunk to get it, had to dig around for a while, and when he came up with it, Sam was already gone, inside the house. He hissed an angry breath through his teeth and slammed the trunk closed, remembering the neighbors too late. "Fuckin' ridiculous."

He trudged to the window Sam had obviously already broken into, duffle in one hand, rocksalt gun in the other, his gun strapped to his side. He felt oddly naked for all of his weapons, and pissed off, and tired beyond belief. It wasn't a bolstering combination.

\--

Things could have definitely gone better. Dean had laid out a Devil's Trap on the ceiling and a salt ring, but when the succubus bitch (not hot at _all_ in human form, considering the lore on those things, he'd forgotten about that) popped up in the room, she busted through both like they were toy handcuffs. She was quick, too, like a spirit instead of a human, and both of them were sluggish and startled, adrenalin only now starting to kick in. Sam wasted half a clip shooting at air, and she kept popping up behind Dean like something out of a cartoon.

Dean managed to get behind her, fingers painfully tight around the penknife he'd pulled out instead of his gun. Sam saw him and stopped firing in case one of his bullets went awry again, eyes trained on the succubus as she hissed and cackled and tried to find a way out. Dean yanked her back against him in the space of half a breath, and fuck, she stank like rotten flowers or something up close; her hair, her ratty dress. Last time he hadn't been foolish enough to get close and smell her. She struggled, and Dean raised the knife, aiming to plunge it into her heart.

"Sammy," she said, the first actual word out of her mouth, not those creepy animalistic noises. It was soft and seductive and knowing. Sam went pale and Dean knew he was going to shoot.

"Son of a bitch." Dean might have yelled it, he wasn't sure, but it could have been a thought he didn't have time to vocalize. He shoved the succubus away and tried to get out of Sam's line of fire. Sure enough, Sam shot the rest of his clip at her and missed. Both of them, fortunately. Dean was on the dirty floor, the side of his face scraped and his knees not feeling great either.

She crashed through one of the windows in a spray of glass and undoubtedly ran off into the woods.

"What the fuck was that?" Dean demanded, panting, finally getting to his feet, but Sam took off after her.

Dean cursed and wiped blood off of his cheek, stopping to pick up the lantern before staggering out the window after the pair of them. He saw Sam had gotten the trunk open, and he hoped he hadn't remembered to lock it, because if Sam had busted the mechanism to get in, he was fucking dead meat. Sam went for the loaded shot gun, regular rounds, and sprinted towards the woods before Dean could catch up. Fuck.

He drew his gun and followed the sounds of Sam's feet snapping over wet foliage and twigs, further off the sounds the succubus apparently couldn't help making. Sam fired the shotgun two times, and the succubus screamed, the sound reverberating in the night.

"Sam," he shouted, pretense of stealth thrown out the window, wanting to make sure his stupid brother didn't do something stupid like run off blind in the woods after a succubus with nothing to protect him. "Shit, Sam?"

Sam didn't answer, just shot again. It sounded closer, and Dean ran toward it with his heart slamming and his heavy breathing in his ears; still the crickets kept singing, undisturbed. The lantern made crazy shapes against the trees, and he'd catch a flash of what he thought was Sam and chase after it only to find he was gone or it wasn't Sam in the first place.

"_Sam_!" He screamed, staring to panic, running faster.

He nearly tripped over Sam when he found them, Sam standing with his gun aimed at the succubus as she sprawled on the ground. She must have tripped over something. She whimpered and growled, started to pick herself up, and Jesus, that wasn't pretty. Sam hit her at least once with the shotgun, and those rounds may not have been able to kill her, but they did some gory damage. Dean raised the lantern and winced at the blood.

Sam made to shoot her again, and Dean raised his other hand to stop him, to remind him it wouldn't do any real good. She stared at them both, Dean behind his brother, and she wobbled around like a cornered animal. Her lips split in a smile. "Sammy," she sighed again.

Sam shot her in the head. It knocked her backwards and Dean didn't feel up to checking if she still had anything left up there. He reached for his gun, still holstered at his side and holding the only bullets they could actually kill her with. Sam took it from him wordlessly and put three into her chest.

"Dude." Dean said, not even seeing any of it anymore, not her body or the woods around them. "Hostile much?"

\--

Dean drove them back to the motel, Sam dirty and sweaty in the passenger seat. He didn't respond to Dean's numerous shifty glances or his meaningful throat-clearing. The way Sam was acting, the way he'd responded to the succubus, it all overrode Dean's worry and anger over that bullshit with Ruby. He knew it would come back, but he needed to make sure Sam didn't need to go to the hospital or anything first. And swear to God, if Sam was acting like this on purpose, to pay Dean back, he was beating him senseless.

"You all right there, Helen Keller?"

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam's voice came out low and croaky.

"Yeah, you sure seem fine." Dean gave him a dark look but Sam didn't see it, staring straight ahead at the road.

"I'm tired."

"Bullshit," he snapped. "I'm tired too. I didn't go half-cocked after a succubus like... some sort of rabid dog. This isn't like you, Sam."

Sam didn't answer.

"Hey." Nothing. "You fuckin' talk to me." He reached over and shoved at Sam's shoulder, hard, hard enough to hurt. That at least got Sam to look at him, eyes narrowed, jaw working.

"I'm tired of demons, Dean," he said, back in his normal voice now.

"You and the rest of the world," Dean said, pushing him, trying to press his buttons. "What the _fuck_, Sammy?"

Sam started, winced. "I'm just. I'm tired of demons trying to fuck with my head."

Dean took a moment to consider that. "You mean the succubus, she, she did something?" Sam sighed and rubbed at his temples. It was enough of an answer for him right now. "She didn't do anything to me."

"I noticed."

Dean didn't know what to say. Sam didn't have to go to a hospital, at least. He was so strung out from what had been going on between him and Sam, his brain felt fried. "Do you wanna talk about it?" It was what Sam would have said. He was a piss-poor replacement for his brother in this situation. Sam didn't answer him, which is what Dean would have done. He could sort of appreciate the irony. He continued on. "Well, messing with people's heads, that's what demons do, Sam. It's not-- you can't listen to them." Demons lie. There was a reason Lucifer was called the Prince of Lies. Sam knew that like he knew how to read a frigging map. "What, did she tell you more crap about you leading some demon army?"

"No."

Dean nodded to himself, thinking. "She... was it about me? About my deal?" His voice scraped over it like a wound. It was something he couldn't think about for too long, something he couldn't help but dwell on. He pretended it didn't exist most of the time so he didn't have to deal with Sam trying to save him and exactly how well that would end.

"No."

A beat. "You're going to have to give me something, man, I'm too tired to play 20 Questions."

Sam wrapped his arms across his stomach and slouched in the seat. "Jess."

_Shit_. No wonder Sam was wound so damn tight. He lost his head when anyone brought up Jess but him, still torn up over it, touchy as hell. "Of course she played that card." He might have said he was sorry, given Sam some sympathy, but they weren't themselves. "That sucks. You know you..." He cut himself off. Sam wouldn't want to hear another speech on how he wasn't responsible for Jessica's death. Dean didn't think Sam would ever get over feeling guilty.

"She showed me." Sam's voice broke and he cleared his throat. Uncomfortable. "Me and Jess. Dean."

"What?" They were almost back to the motel, but Dean was tempted to keep driving, keep Sam talking.

"You thought about me and Jess."

It felt like he cracked a rib. The quiet way Sam said it, the silence in the car after. It wasn't an accusation, really, and it should have been. Like it was another fact on a long list about how fucked up Dean was. "I'm sorry."

He'd actually forgotten. It wasn't something he thought about often. Just, you know. Once or twice, feeling guilty in the back of his mind but pushing it away to make room for the image of Sam fucking his beautiful college girlfriend on his second-hand couch. How he'd tried to ignore the fact that she was dead but it kept creeping in, unavoidable, and that didn't make him stop. Even thinking about _thinking about it_ brought back how hot he'd been, how hard he'd come, and he felt like the lowest scum on earth. And Sam had seen it.

"Don't be _sorry_," Sam mumbled, exhaustion and something else getting the better of him, and looked out the window. "Don't."

\--

Dean thought Sam might leave. For real, for good. Like Stanford, but no dad going missing and no girlfriend dying to drag Sam back. Dean didn't really know how he felt about it. He spent a lot of time, he didn't know how much exactly, but a lot of time lying in bed or drinking at bars. It was pretty clichéd and he felt stupid doing it, that whole driven to drink thing, but it wasn't like he could help himself.

He and Sam spoke more than before, but none of it mattered or fixed anything. Sam told him he was drinking too often, goofing off, and Dean told him to shut the fuck up and do the laundry, Cinderella. Some tension had been broken, but it wasn't the right kind.

It was 2am, and there was a pretty attractive girl with sandy blonde hair sitting at his table. She'd come over and watched him throw darts and hustle fifty bucks from some redneck, pretty impressive considering how smashed he'd been. He thought about fucking her in the car but the idea exhausted him, and now if he thought about sex he thought about Sam, default, nothing he could do about it. Wasn't exactly _arousing_, walking around feeling like a sick fuck. He didn't glory in it, and Dean supposed it made him a better person than someone who would.

He went home when most of his buzz wore off. He'd driven the Impala and was prepared to let Sam rip him a new one over it. He probably could have walked or called a cab, but he wasn't woozy or too uncoordinated.

Dean had a moment at the door when he thought he'd lost his keycard, but it was stuffed in his wallet between two twenties. He opened the door to silence, one light on. Not unusual. Sam spent a lot of time reading paperbacks or looking stuff up on his laptop; Dean was more the tv-watcher.

"You finish your book?" Dean asked, taking off his jacket and hanging it over the chair by the door.

"Fuck anyone?"

Dean froze. He forced himself to keep moving, unbuttoning his shirt. He figured a quick exit to the bathroom was probably best if Sam was. Moody. "Nope," he said, too cheerful, hand already reaching for the bathroom door's knob, "lots of dogs in this town."

"Or you were too drunk to get it up."

"Nice, Sam." He opened the door, shaken up, and walked inside. Sam didn't comment.

Dean stood under the tepid water, still too sloshed to make much sense of it all. Yeah, if Sam's new and improved mood was anything to go by, they were one bout of throwing punches away from Sam leaving and never coming back. Dean thought maybe it might be harder for Henricksen to find them if they split up. He knew Sam was smart, he'd just melt into obscurity like he'd never even existed in the first place. Maybe it was supposed to be this way. Maybe Dean wasn't supposed to get a year.

He got out and dried off with the shower still running; he was about to leave the room when he remembered it was still on. Christ. It was like taking up half the allotted space inside your head. It took him another spaced-out moment to remember he had no clothes in the bathroom but the ones he'd worn to the bar, and those stank like it. Fuck it. If Sam was going to leave anyway, he could live with seeing a split second of Dean's bare ass.

The temperature shift between the bathroom and the bedroom was disconcerting. Dean walked over to his bed, cool droplets of water chasing themselves across the pane of his back, and tried to remember where he put his clean boxers.

"Did you jerk off?"

Dean threw Sam a disgusted look. "What the fuck is your problem?" He didn't want to fight, not then, but he didn't want lewd comments from the peanut gallery, either.

"I'm serious." Sam shifted around in bed, and he did look serious, his expression open, or at least not the blank mask Dean was used to seeing. "Did you get off in there?"

"Not that it's your business, but _no_," Dean spat, flustered.

Sam's lips twisted bitterly. "Because you couldn't?"

Dean had a hard time believing Sam truly wanted to get into it right then, at some ungodly hour of the morning, that he wanted throw Dean out -- no, take his own shit and go with a meaningful slam of the door, that was Sam's style. It was cold and Dean didn't think he could throw a punch to get the whole thing going. He wanted to, he'd prefer violence to Sam rubbing his face in what a fucking failure of a brother he was.

"Because I don't, and I'm not fucking going to, so you can take your righteous indignation and shove it. I told you I was sorry, man."

It was a little odd to stand there in a towel, towering over Sam's place in his bed from across the room. Almost like he sensed it, Sam sat up straighter against the headboard, working himself up to a good fury, probably. "No, you didn't. You said you were sorry for Jess. You didn't apologize for getting off over me."

Dean's teeth gritted, unsteadily and too hard, so he caught the inside of his cheek. It was a prick of pain, nothing he even noticed. "_Sorry_," he said heavily. "That good?"

Sam snorted. Dean threw his towel on the bed in a rush of fury and pulled on his boxers with shaking hands. He tried to think of something to say, something to stop their strange little fight or rev it up so Sam would just leave him already, but there was nothing.

"Dean."

He focused on turning down his bed, fluffing his cheap pillow, his hands so jerky it felt like he might rip it. "What."

He shouldn't have turned around. He wasn't planning to, but it wasn't Dean's habit to talk to someone without looking at them from time to time. Sam, Sam was shirtless -- which Dean had noticed but it hadn't occurred to him to question why -- and the sheet he'd pulled over himself was now pushed down past his thighs. He was naked. And sweating, a little.

"This is what you want?" Sam asked, in this weird grunt of a voice. He started jerking himself, and Dean physically recoiled and backed away until the backs of his knees hit his bed. He sat down.

"Jesus, Sam."

Sam kicked the top sheet and blankets off of his legs, so he was just lying there against the white of the mattress. It was disturbing and Sam was just huge all over, which Dean knew, but now he really knew. He wiped a hand over his face, grimacing, and pointedly looked at the wall opposite from Sam.

"You fucking look at me." Sam wasn't playing at sexy, or whatever the fuck, he was mad. Furious. Dean could hear the crack in his voice and the way his breathing deepened, nothing to do with the way he was touching himself. "You're the one who wants it." His voice rose to an almost-yell, loud enough that the couple staying in the next room might hear. Might pound on the wall. Dean wished they would.

"You're fuckin' gross," he tossed back, "put that shit away." He still didn't look.

"You're a goddamn liar, Dean," Sam started, full on ranting, and Dean wondered what kind of picture he made, furiously preaching and jacking himself off. "Fucking dick." Dean heard Sam moving around, and it was strangely painful to listen to, worse than the yelling. He heard the slap of what Sam was doing, not muffled by covers at 3am when Sam thought he was asleep. "I can see your dick, Dean. You're fucking hard for it. You want it." Sam made this choked sound in his throat, Dean couldn't tell if he was gagging or moaning or what. "You gonna have the balls to get off to your _Sammy_ without some chick in the middle of it?"

It was the Sammy that did it, the way Sam said the word like it was the most disgusting thing he'd said in his life. It wasn't that Sam was right about him being hard, because Dean was so freaked out he couldn't even process that. He crossed the room and started swinging at Sam's face, harder than he'd thought he could. Sam caught his fist and use the momentum to shove Dean back, so he sprawled onto the floor, Sam standing up from the bed and towering over him. Naked. It was surreal and kind of funny. Dean fought laughing, not very well, and dragged himself to his knees, trying to stand.

"What the hell do you even want from me, Sam?" Dean asked, halfway to hysterical.

Sam ignored the question and looked down at Dean, chest heaving. He'd gone half-flaccid and it was pretty much the only time Dean had seen another guy's dick in a sexual situation outside of porn. He looked ridiculous, piece of skin hanging there out of place from the lines of his body, and Dean couldn't stop staring.

Sam's hands flexed at his sides. "Take your dick out," he said, no hesitation, like he was asking Dean to pass the salt.

"Fuck," Dean muttered.

"Do it," Sam said, putting some force behind the words. "Take it out and jerk yourself off."

Dean slowly reached down to his boxers. He didn't even feel hard. He knew he was, and when he worked open the button and pulled it out he could feel that he was for certain. He stroked automatically, muscle memory, and squeezed around the base. Sam watched him for a minute, and the nearly unblinking weight of it made Dean flush and start to soften some. Sam's expression didn't change, but he spoke. "Get on the bed."

Dean did. His knees cracked in protest when he stood up. Sam's bed was warm, the mattress felt like it might be softer than his. "I meant lie down, Dean," Sam said, and Dean pulled his legs up and slid over some to lie down against the pillow. Sam's shadow hovered over him for a minute.   
"I'm bigger than you thought, right. I know I am. Jerk off."

Dean did. Slower than he would have usually. He swallowed hard when he felt the dip of the mattress as Sam got on the bed next to him. Their shoulders pressed together, Dean could feel the muscles of Sam's arm constricting with his movements.

"You wanna see me come?" Sam asked, breathless, and Dean looked over. The head of Sam's dick was sticky, his fingers making a ring around it as he jacked himself. He _was_ bigger than Dean thought. His stomach flipped. "I know you do, you wanna see me shoot all over some girl's face." Sam was shaking the whole bed and Dean kept speeding up to match Sam, nearly stripping himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm coming," Sam bit, his body raising off the bed and going stiff while he shot ropes of come over his stomach and thighs.

\--

Dean's eyes burned as he stared at the ceiling above them, patchy with water stains. He was covered in come and Sam was warm next to him, alien. As soon as Sam had come, he'd shut down, watching Dean frantically jack himself until he shot so hard he got some of it on Sam, and hadn't spoken since.

"I didn't mean to do that," Sam said quietly, startling Dean, and that was so like him. More talking.

Dean knew he didn't. He knew the kind of shit Sam did when he got pissed, and he knew he would have stopped him if he'd. Wanted to. "I know." Dean blinked a couple times and wondered if there was any Tylenol in the room. He knew there was some out in the car.

"You were right about Ruby."

"What?"

Sam swallowed. "Ruby. You were right about her."

"This is about Ruby?" Dean thought he'd been burned out of emotions, but putting the pieces together and figuring that Ruby had a hand in this fucked up confrontation made his whole body tense up. "Did she--"

"No. She's dead." Sam paused. "I killed her."

"Oh." He thought _good_, but didn't say it.

"She didn't want to save you. Couldn't," Sam corrected himself.

Dean went back to staring at the ceiling. He didn't know what Sam wanted from him, congratulations or reassurances that he'd find something else. He didn't want Sam to find something else. He didn't want Sam to fucking _die_.

"I'll find something else."

Dean rolled onto his side. "Don't hold your breath."

\--

Three days later, most of those spent sleeping, and Dean was ordering Sam's food in a shitty diner just over the border of Idaho. Sam was in the bathroom, and Dean felt a wry stab of humor when he remembered that Ruby wasn't going to show up and casually ruin Dean's life.

The waitress was pouring coffee for both of them and slopped it over the table. He reached out with a napkin to soak up the spill.

"Sorry," she groaned, shaking her head at the mess. "Klutz since birth, I'm kinda hazardous."

Dean laughed. "It's no big thing," and she gave him a dimpled grin.

Sam came back from the bathroom and bitched about the sticky shit on the table getting onto his laptop. Dean feigned ignorance and stole half of his hash browns when the food came.

"I've got a hunt in Illinois," Sam said, "if you're already as sick of Idaho as I am."

"What's in Illinois?"

"Uh." Sam leaned back and studied the screen of his laptop. "It looks like a poltergeist. At a museum."

"Fucking _poltergeists_ are better than this state. They should think about a Six Flags or something."

"I'll write a letter to the tourism board," Sam said, deadpan.

He possibly ate too many of Sam's hash browns on top of his Meat Lover's breakfast special. The grease overload was giving him heartburn. "You got any Tums?"

"I think I've got some Pepcid AC," Sam said, considering. He dug through his manbag (that thing was _not_ made for a laptop and Sam knew it) and his brows drew together when he couldn't find it.

The waitress brought over their check and offered to freshen their cups. Dean waved her off, impatient for the Pepcid AC, making faces at the burning in his esophagus. "Who's got it this time?" he asked, trying to distract himself.

"Uh, me," Sam said, still digging. Dean glanced at the check, his Meat Lover's special coming in at a ridiculous $8.99, and was about to pass it over when he noticed the smiley face and phone number. Their waitress, Brenda, wanted him to call her "sometime." Shit. "I can't find the pills, maybe they're in my other bag." Sam shifted in the booth so he could pull out his money clip. "What's the damage?" He snatched it out of Dean's hand and snorted at the price. "That's over twenty bucks with tip. I hope they go out of business."

"Shit, can we please _go_, my throat feels like it's frickin' on fire."

It turned out Sam had thrown out what was left of his Pepcid AC several weeks ago. Dean managed to find some linty Rolaids in the glove compartment, underneath some napkins. Sam ignored his bitching and moaning in favor of leaving a message with Bobby. Dean was feeling slightly better by the time they got back on the freeway.

"So," Sam said, after hanging up, "that waitress gave you her number."

Great, the heartburn was back. "Yeah," he said, acting super intent on changing lanes.

Sam cleared his throat. "Did you...? You know."

Dean gave him a look. "I'm not calling her. In case you haven't noticed, we're going to _Illinois_."

"Right, I know. She's not my type, anyway."

It took Dean a minute for that to sink in. He laughed so hard, just one forceful bark, that he felt like he'd dislodged something. "Cute, Sam." And fairly fucking unbelievable, considering they hadn't said one word about the whole thing since that night in the motel room.

"I thought so." Sam leaned over to pick up his book from the floor. He shot Dean a half-smile, awkward but genuine, mostly just smug, before opening his book and settling in the seat.

Dean popped Skynyrd into the tapedeck and rolled his window down. It was three days, likely four, to Illinois. He put Brenda the waitress and her diner's shitty food in his rearview and tried not to subtract four days from the time he had left.

Sam might talk to him now, outside of pleasantries and cases. They hadn't fixed anything, or figured out anything, but Sam was still sitting the passenger seat, and Dean was still driving.

Oh, and Ruby was dead.

Thank fuck.

\--

END.


End file.
